Christmas Again (Like Never Before)
by CapGirlCanuck
Summary: Bucky gets out of cryo, and Steve figures out that, (to paraphrase Heimdall) Home is not a place, it's people. (Prequel to my fic Way Back When).
1. Chapter 1

**_Dedicated with all the love in the world to my_** **family.**

 _Steve,_

 _Okay, I don't know what to say, other than: thank you a million times over._

 _I wish you'd stop looking like that every time I mention cryo. It's different now, you know that. I'll be safe there, until you get back and Princess Shuri figures out my brain. And you've made such a big deal about getting to make my own choices now, well, this IS mine. Just for a little while._

 _Just don't let anything happen to you, old pal. 'End of the line', means we go out together, you hear? No more of this stupid 'I thought you were dead' stuff, PLEASE._

 _I told the Princess that you'd say when to wake me up. (Is it weird to say she reminds me of Becca?) I trust you. I mean, you know that. Ugh, why am I tripping over this stupid letter?_

 _I know their names: Rebecca, Anna, and Elizabeth. But here's something I'm pretty sure I actually REMEMBER: I always wanted a brother. And then… I didn't._

 _Over and over, you've reminded me that you're my friend. You're actually more than that. You are my brother._

 _'Greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends'_

 _Wow. I can't remember my mother's face, but I can quote that verse. Probably because they put it on every soldier's grave. But that's you. 'Greater love'._

 _I still don't– Please, don't let this… I'm not trying to hurt you. For crying out loud, you need to stop assuming responsibility for every bad thing that's ever happened to me!_

 _I still don't feel, well, worth everything you gave up. But I know you think I am. Maybe someday I'll be able to agree. Probably need your help with that._

 _Okay, I think my pen's running out of ink. When was the last time I wrote you a letter? During the war? This isn't exactly 70 years' worth of words or whatever. But hopefully we'll have time to do some real catching up, once I figure out who the heck I am. Other than your brother._

 _Better finish this before it gets too wet._

 _Thanks again, pal. For everything. Back with you to the end of the line._

 _Love,_

 _Bucky_

Steve released a long sigh, the way he always did after reading Buck's letter. The one he'd found in his bag, when they were already on their way to the Raft Prison. He hadn't let himself read it 'til that mission was finished. He just hadn't expected the fallout to take so long to resolve.

Though that had kind of worked out too. Here it was December 19 and call him a sentimental old man, but he liked the idea of getting his friend back in time for Christmas. It was all he could possibly want.

He glanced up, watching the man asleep on the bed; Shuri had said it could be up to an hour before he woke up.

Bucky had it right: she was a pretty amazing girl. A lot like Becca. With dashes of the twins in there. As smart as all three Barnes girls put together and then some. But Steve was still grateful to T'Challa for convincing her to leave them alone. Actually, he had probably ordered her.

Steve watched Bucky's chest rise and fall, steadily. He heard the echo of his friend's voice, _"Breathe, Stevie. Just breathe."_ A soft chuckle escaped him. "I don't exactly have asthma anymore," he murmured aloud. "Don't have to worry about saving me like that again."

He folded the letter, slipped it into the chest pocket inside his jacket, and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's almost Christmas, Buck," he went on. "Sam and Nat are here. Not sure where Wanda is, but… Well, actually she's probably spending the holidays with Vision, but don't repeat that." He smiled, thinking of his friends who had stuck with him so much.

"Sam's trying to see if he can get his hands on a turkey. You want to know what's really funny? We were talking recipes the other day and Sam was writing down his mom's secret dressing and I was remembering Mother's and–" His throat closed around the words and he had to swallow hard, before he could go on.

"They were the same."

Steve fell silent, breathing in time with his friend. He let himself remember those Christmases, with his mother laughing and the roast goose and the Christmas cake and the Barneses. The tough times in the early '30s. Then just him with the Barnes family, until the war came knocking. They had always had him make the turkey dressing, because he was the only one who knew his mom's recipe.

Their last Christmas together had been spent huddled in the attic of a French Resistance 'safehouse', swapping chocolate they'd saved from Red Cross packages, and Gabe teaching them _Stille Nacht_ , and Falsworth recounting the old story from the Great War of the 'Christmas Armistice'...

Two months later, almost to the day, Bucky went down and then Steve went down, and the whole 'firsts' thing hadn't hit until he woke up in 2012. First Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first Bucky's birthday, first July 4th. After he discovered Buck was still alive, well, he hadn't noticed holidays much at all.

He put out his hand, hesitating for a minute before he laid it on Buck's. Warm, real. He curled his fingers around Bucky's wrist, feeling his pulse, his life.

There came a sudden sharp image of that hand just out of his reach, then slipping away… He gripped Buck's hand, warding off the memory. That was then. This was now.

Steve's breathing slowed again and his gaze returned to Bucky's face, waiting for those eyes to open.

"I'm here, Buck," he whispered. "Ain't getting rid of me that easy."

Buck could hear Steve, talking. Feel his friend's hand, gripping his. Warm, everything was warm.

And, dang it, he was thirsty.

He swallowed to wet his throat and cracked his eyes open.

"Steve." Those blue eyes, always so darn worried. Wait, was he crying? "What-?"

Steve leaned forward, desperately trying to hold back the wave of emotion crashing over him. "Yeah, Buck. Everything's okay."

"Was I... asleep? Oh." Bucky stiffened, remembering. "Cryo," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He squeezed Steve's hand once, before pulling away and rubbing his face.

Slowly he sat up, worry and fear seeping into his eyes. "So I didn't dream that? You're here and they must have figured out some way to fix me."

"It's real," Steve answered.

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, brushed his fingers across the stubble on his chin, briefly felt the stump of his left arm. He was here, in one piece. Mostly.

"Steve?" Dang it, why did his voice have to wobble suddenly?

"Yeah?" Steve didn't sound any more pulled together.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, causing Steve to slide his chair out of the way, before standing.

Steve stared down at the top of his friend's head for a moment, the long hair. He'd had almost six months to wrap his head around what Bucky would be like now. The damage that had been done. How different things would be.

Then Bucky looked up, his eyes shimmering with tears. And Steve couldn't help himself. He stooped down, felt, rather than saw, Bucky flinch, and wrapped his arms around his friend's shoulders. Felt Buck's hand tentatively land on his back.

Bucky pressed his face into Steve's shoulder, letting Steve pull him to his feet. He was dangerously close to losing it. But he had to ask, to know for _sure_ for sure.

"So things– It's going… to be… okay?"

Steve made some sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Yeah, Buck. You're going to be just fine."

Bucky's only reply was a tiny, hiccupy sob, a disgrace for a man his size. Steve's arms tightened around his shoulders. "It's okay, Buck," he said, huskily. "You're allowed to cry."

So he did.

Things had happened so quickly when they had first arrived in Wakanda, they'd had less than a week to figure out what they were doing. Both of them had broken down more than once in that time, but this was… different. No nightmares, no desperate 'how did this happen to me', no 'what if there's no way out'.

Steve could feel Buck's hand gripping the back of his shirt, feel him shaking, feel the tension draining from his body, even as he hung on to Steve even tighter. For this moment anyway, they could both believe it.

Bucky's tears finally slowed, and he realised he was desperate for water. Coughing seized him and he felt Steve start to pull back, not exactly what he wanted. But it was suddenly very difficult to breathe, with the cough tangled up with the sobs, and a sudden attack of the hiccups.

"Buck. Settle down," came Steve's voice.

Steve twisted far enough to grab a glass of water off the table, without letting go of his friend. "Drink," he ordered. Finally Buck let go of him to take the glass; he downed it in one breath.

With the cough quieted, Bucky slumped against Steve, still struggling to catch his breath. Steve took the glass away, and started rubbing his hands in circles on Bucky's back. "Just breathe, pal. Just breathe. Come on, it's okay."

He tilted his head so his ear was pressed over Steve's heart, listened to the steady rhythm. More tears. But he felt his breathing slow, deepening to match Steve's.

"So," he finally said. "What did I miss? How long has it even been?"

"Six months," was Steve's answer. He paused. "I'm sorry–"

"Don't," Bucky interrupted. "Don't you ever be sorry for anything again, ya punk."

Steve snorted. "Except for being friends with _you_ , jerk."

 **Author's note:**

I originally suggested that Bucky died before Christmas 1944, according to the death date given at the Smithsonian. Unfortunately, after watching The First Avenger over again a few times, I realized that I just couldn't make it work. And in the choice between something written on a museum display, and the obvious timeline of actual events in a movie, I'm going with the actual events.  
But let's face it, Steve wouldn't have really _celebrated_ Christmas since right before Buck fell, so this is still really poignant.

 **N.B.** Hiccups in the MCU timeline drive me nuts (yeah, my friends tell me I have control issues T_T). But I work with it as much as possible, jumping on the blurry lines and redrawing them to fit my purpose. My brain tends to go in different directions from most people's, so if the timing of this story confuses you, I will just say that I peg the closing scene from Black Panther as happening much later. I also have to fit this in with When We Were Young and its sequel.  
Originally a one shot, that possessed my imagination!

I hope you enjoy, and if you have any more questions I will be happy to answer them!


	2. Chapter 2

The days that followed were relatively happy ones, with only a few nightmares and no appearances from the Winter Soldier.

Everyone tried their best to set aside the shadows and let in the light of the Christmas season. Although Christmas was not observed in Wakanda, Princess Shuri said they would wait until after to begin Buck's treatment, something he agreed to with minor reluctance.

"I might not remember my middle name some days," he told Steve, as they sprawled on Steve's bed, late Christmas Eve. "But I remember Christmas."

"Not something that's easy to forget," Steve answered.

There came a tap at the door and Sam poked his head in. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

Bucky grinned at him. He really liked Sam, but most of all he appreciated his loyalty and care for Steve. When the three of them were together, it was like a little bit of the Howlies back again. "Take a seat," he said, sweeping his hand to take in the big bed.

"Don't mind if I do," Sam said, mildly, then took a run and jumped for a crash-landing. There was plenty of yelling and curses and laughter, turning into a wrestling match, which ended with Sam pinned by the super soldiers, until he cried 'Uncle'.

"Taken down by a couple of old geezers," Sam groaned, finally sitting up.

"You oughtta be ashamed of yourself," Steve teased.

More laughter.

"Hey, fellas. You're awfully loud for elves."

They glanced up at Natasha leaning against the doorframe. Steve had only sort of gotten used to the blonde. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and Steve noticed her pajama pants: blue, yellow, brown, and black zig-zags. She must have picked them up at the market the other day.

"Don't you know the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will get here?"

Steve gestured toward the armchair. "Have a seat. Join the party."

She did so, pulling her feet up to tuck them under the edge of the blanket. There was an easy silence.

Bucky, though, shifted his position so that Steve was between him and Natasha. She made him nervous on a number of counts. He'd shot her and fought her, twice each, and never yet said he was sorry. Then she had a way of looking right _through_ him, the look of one who'd been there, done that. But also, she knew Russian.

Funny, since he would trust her with his life. But that was mostly because Steve did.

Sam leaned back against the footboard, stretched his legs out. "What's your favorite Christmas memory?" he asked, glancing around enquiringly.

Steve took a deep breath, watching his friends' faces. Natasha, stared down at her hands in her lap. Bucky's expression clouded over, brow furrowing.

"I can sure tell you mine," Sam said, filling the silence. "I don't remember just how old I was. Probably ten, since that would have been one of the last times we were all together." Sam's voice did not falter, but Steve could see in his eyes the bittersweet-ness of the memories.

"There was this massive snowfall, on the– What would have been the twenty-third. Day before the day before Christmas. Probably two feet. Then Christmas Eve, the temp goes waay up, like into the 40s and it rained most of the afternoon. Simon, my big brother, was predicting a flood, saying we would have to take the Christmas tree down and build an ark."

Steve and Bucky laughed at the same moment.

"But nope, we wake up the next day to the town of Ames frozen like a Popsicle." He smirked at Steve. "No offence. Anyway, the power was all out, thank God our house had fireplaces. That farmhouse was as old as the hills it was built on. Daddy was the preacher at the Methodist Church, but he was also the volunteer fire chief, so he had to get some men together and go around. Make sure everybody was okay. Simon went with him, of course, and I was jealous, mad jealous. But Mama told me, 'You smarten up now and tell me how we're gonna cook that turkey, you're so crazy about.' Man, that got me." Sam laughed, lost in the memory now.

"We had turkey stew that Christmas, from a big old kettle over the flames, like the dang pioneers. But it was plenty to go around, since we ended up with probably a dozen strays—that's what my mother used to call 'em—keeping warm at our place. Daddy gave me a knife that year; my first. 'Use it with care, son', he said." Sam released a long sigh.

"When I joined up, I left it at home. Didn't want to risk losing it. But I know for a fact Mama still has it in a box somewhere."

There was a long silence.

"You gonna call home tomorrow?" Bucky asked suddenly.

"Always do," Sam answered.

"Good." He saw Sam's eyebrows quirk, and ducked his head. He couldn't really explain why that was so important to him.

"Nat?" Steve said softly.

She looked up with a start. "Oh. Mmm. First Christmas with Clint's family, I guess."

She paused and looked away, her gaze going 'through' the walls. "You probably know Nick sent Clint after me to kill me. Obviously, he didn't. I'll never know why, what he saw in me. I guess Nick saw it too. Anyway, Cooper was maybe five? Lila was a baby. They had everything, you know: tree, lights, presents, holly, everything. Clint hadn't been home on Christmas Day in a couple years. Don't know why he decided to bring me."

"Bet Laura took one look at you, and asked Clint why he'd been letting his poor Russian sister starve," Steve teased.

Nat glanced at him briefly. He saw her smile, the coolness leaving her face, eyes going soft at the memories. "I didn't know people could– No, I'd forgotten people could be like that."

"Like what?" Sam asked quietly.

"A family."

This time Bucky broke the silence. "Couch cushions. On the floor." He glanced at Steve, saw the smile start in his eyes, work its way to his lips. "You and me trying to fall asleep. But the girls were there too, and they kept giggling. We must have been at your house, and the twins had gotten these little noisemakers, so they kept making duck sounds. Ugh. Wait, did you…?" He stared at Steve, his mind running into a wall.

Steve snorted, though his eyes were wet.

"That _was_ you! You little punk, those drove me nuts!"

"Until you threw them in the bay for the fishes, I saw you." Steve started to crack up. "You told your sisters you had taken them to the 'quack shop' to get cleaned–"

"And someone picked my pocket on the way home. That was true," Bucky insisted.

"Yeah, and you still had the money to go to the movies that evening."

Bucky caught up a pillow, but Steve was laughing now, all out. Blue eyes crinkled up, face flushed, the bed shaking, that impossibly infectious, oddly high-pitched 'hahahaha' that Bucky hadn't heard since…

He was shaking too, laughter spilling out of him. He wasn't even sure what they were losing it over, but the looks on Sam and Natasha's faces made it even worse.

They lay there and laughed until they cried and their sides hurt and they couldn't breathe.

They finally stopped when Sam and Natasha—rolling their eyes, but smiling—got up to leave.

"Wait," Steve called, sitting up weakly.

"It is almost midnight," Nat said.

"Yeah, but…" He scrubbed a hand over his face, caught his breath. What did he want?

"Let's all sleep in here tonight," Bucky said. He shrugged, looked down, his face getting hot. "Like I remember."

Sam laughed. "I remember me and my brother, making Sarah sleep between us so she wouldn't complain about being cold."

"Won't catch me," Nat said, smirking.

"We can take the floor," Steve said, swinging his feet off the bed. "You can have the bed."

She shook her head, but Steve saw her smiling.

The guys discovered that the carpet was actually quite comfortable. "Maybe it's got vibranium in it," Bucky murmured.

On Steve's other side, Sam yawned. "Kinda like sleeping back in the 'Stan."

"Except there aren't any rocks under the tent," Steve answered. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, and heard Nat's quiet voice.

"Like being a kid again."

What could you add to that?

"Merry Christmas, boys."

"Merry Christmas," came three replies.

And at some point they all fell asleep. And nobody had any nightmares.

 **Author's Note**

Ames is a small town in upstate New York. I played with time a bit: the big ice storm was in January 1998. I would put Sam's story in December 1995/6.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve didn't know what he expected for gifts on Christmas morning. But he knew he had all he needed when he woke to Bucky snoring beside him.

He handed out his presents to the others over morning coffee in the living room. Actually, hot chocolate, made by Buck; no one could make it like Bucky.

They were hasty sketches, not his best he knew; he hadn't had much time to work on them and it had been a while since he did any drawing.

Sam's had been an easy choice, though a challenge since Steve never felt like people were his best subjects. His dead friend Riley, sitting on the front porch, eating an apple, an American flag hanging by the door behind him: that's how it started. But then Steve just started adding people in the background: Sam's mom sitting next to his step-dad, his father standing beside them, and Simon and Sarah playing a game. Steve hoped it wasn't too much; all those people he loved, two of them taken too soon.

Sam went quite still, stared for a long time, before he finally said, "That's him all right. That's them." He glanced at Steve, nodded once, and wandered out of the room.

Steve looked at Nat, who was grinning, shaking her head. He'd had the worst time figuring hers out, finally brainstorming with Bucky late one night, when they'd both woken up from bad dreams. But clearly he'd nailed it.

She turned the paper so he and Bucky could see it. A bare-bones dinosaur in a museum, with a star-shaped hole in his rib cage. "Thanks, dinosaur. Don't have a wall to hang it on, but– Stick it up in the Quin, I guess."

She laid it on the coffee table and leaned forward in the armchair. "What's yours?" she asked, looking at Buck.

He glanced down, hesitated a moment and turned it over.

Two boys dressed like heroes, flying across the stars. Written at the bottom: _Buck & Rogers._ The memory came in a snapshot: he and Steve lying on Aunt Sarah's bed reading the comics, Bucky talking, Steve sketching, both dreaming.

A myriad of emotions ran through him. Why did things have to change? Why did boys have to become men and get broken and get left to pick up the pieces? Why did they never fit back together the way they had? Was that really how Steve saw things? Did he really expect him to be the same? He wanted to, desperately, if only for Steve's sake. But he knew he couldn't, couldn't go back–

Steve's hand on his shoulder startled him. Involuntarily, he looked up, then quickly back down again. But Steve had seen enough.

"I didn't mean–"he started, then stopped. He had only wanted to give Bucky the memory, the reminder of how they'd stuck together then, and would stick together now. But how could he say that?

He slid his hand across Bucky's back, cupping the stump of his left arm, gently tugging him closer. "It's okay, Buck," he said softly. "Remember, I'm with you to the end of the line."

Bucky huffed a sigh, and the stiffness went out of him with it. He sagged against Steve; for a minute, anyway. "You're a punk," he muttered.

"And you are a jerk," Steve answered, smiling again. "Making me think you hated my present."

Bucky's answer was to sit up and throw his arm around Steve's neck, and put him in a headlock. It took Steve a full ten seconds to get out.

At some point, Sam came back in, sort of smiling, but looking disappointed too. "No turkey," he said. "Christmas goose. That's my present for you guys."

Steve looked up, grinning. "Very Irish."

"Actually, he's Wakandan."

"Thanks, Sam," Nat said. "You do enough, anyway."

Bucky noticed Sam holding something behind his back. "What are you hiding, Wilson?"

Sam bit his lip, glanced at Steve, who stood up and joined him, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Okay, what was going on here?

"We figured there wasn't much more you'd want," Steve said. "Nat got a hold of them."

"Sharon did," Nat corrected. "And only because Captain America asked her."

Bucky saw Steve's face flush as he shot Nat one of those 'looks'. Sam cleared his throat. With his back to Bucky, Steve took whatever it was from Sam, and turned around.

"Merry Christmas, Buck," he said quietly.

Bucky was standing, without realising it. In disbelief he took the black duffle bag from Steve's hands, felt the weight of the strap across his hand. Then he knelt, setting it on the floor, opened the zipper. His journals, five, six, seven of them. A handful of chocolate bars. And one new blue book, with the plastic on it. He held that one, glanced up.

"My contribution," Sam said.

He was dumbstruck, overwhelmed.

"You don't have to say it," Nat said softly. "It's written all over your face."

Bucky stood again, staring down at the bag he'd never thought he'd see again. Some days, during those two years on the run, writing things down had been the only thing keeping him grounded. Sane. Real. But now… He looked again at Steve, shook his head, and then took two steps to throw his arm around Steve's neck.

Steve laughed softly, hugging him back, before he looped an arm around Sam's neck, pulling him in too.

"It's Christmas, Nat," he called. She grinned, but stayed where she was.

Bucky finally pulled away, and picked up his old duffle bag. "I'm starved," were the first words that popped out of his mouth.

Sam laughed. "How about pancakes?"

They were halfway through breakfast, when Nat slid a piece of paper across the table to Steve.

He glanced down. _Your neighbor_ was written above a phone number. He was not able to cover it with his hand before Bucky leaned over.

He jerked his head up, narrowed his eyes at Steve. "What neighbor? Is she good-looking?"

Steve clamped his jaw shut, and slid the paper into his own pocket. He glared across the table at Nat who smirked back. "I promised you'd call."

Bucky open his mouth, but caught Steve's eye and wisely turned away. Steve had to unlock his jaw before he could take another mouthful of Sam's 'Wakanda berry' pancakes.

"You have a girlfriend, Sam?" Bucky asked.

"Naw. Dated a couple girls, never really worked out. Then I got caught up in this whole Avengers gig. Plus being a wanted criminal. Haven't exactly had time for romance."

Steve looked over at him, brow furrowing. "Did I ever apologize for dragging you-?"

"Shut up," Sam said, though he was smiling. "I made my choice. And you have the worst guilt complex I think I've ever seen."

"Got that right," Bucky said. "Did you know he still thinks it's his fault I fell from the train?" He instantly regretted the words as Steve stiffened. He saw Steve's grip tightening around his milk glass, and pulled it away before it could shatter.

"Captain America couldn't save his best friend," Steve said, in a low voice. "All those times you rescued me, on the streets, wherever. And I couldn't pay you back."

"You already had," Bucky said, trying to find the right words. "You don't owe me anything. I just kicked a few bullies around. You kept on saving my life."

Steve looked up at him, the sorrow back in his eyes. "But if I-?"

"I don't ask 'what if'," Bucky said, resting his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Since what _is_ is more than I could ask for."

Steve shut his eyes in disbelief at his friend's strength. He gulped and reached up to grasp Bucky's wrist, needing the solid reality of him.

Bucky bit his lip, wondering why the heck Christmas had to be so messed up. _Because you are,_ a little voice in his head whispered. He shoved it away.

But that thought came back to him later in the day.

Bucky had shyly handed out his own clumsily wrapped gifts, to Sam and Nat anyway.

Sam seemed happy with the little traditionaly carved falcon. Nat looked up from the piece of paper and smiled at him. "You're forgiven."

When he turned to Steve, his best friend threw up one hand. "Don't need a thing."

"I would have gotten you something, but–" He shrugged helplessly.

"You're here," Steve said quietly. "That's all that matters."

Then, after a truly fantastic supper, they relaxed in the living room.

Of course, Steve had to endure some teasing from Sam and Bucky.

Had he called Sharon?

Yes.

What had they talked about?

Shrug.

Finally when Sam's needling got to be too much, Steve told him to cut it out, and Bucky promptly switched sides. The two of them decided to settle it with an arm wrestling match. Bucky won.

Steve saw Nat, standing at the darkened window, ignoring the chaos, staring out but unseeing, he knew. Thinking of Bruce, probably. No phone calls for her.

He felt someone staring at him and glanced over at Bucky. Uh, oh, there was that devilish grin. Some hare-brained prank was about to be suggested. Bucky motioned to Sam to join them, and for several minutes there was a quiet conference.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Bucky said. Steve knew that wheedling tone. He glanced at Sam; he had to admit it sounded funny, but…

"What if she loses it, and goes all Black Widow on us?" Sam asked.

"I'll fight her," Bucky shrugged. "I've fought tougher."

Both the other men choked, unsure whether or not to laugh, but Steve saw the way Bucky's face twitched. Of course he'd fought Natasha before.

"If you're sure," he finally said. It would be totally worth it to see his buddy laugh.

Bucky hesitated a moment, then held out his hand for Steve's phone. "I'll take the picture."

With a sigh, Steve got up and walked to join Nat. "Not exactly a white Christmas is it?" he commented, staring out at the trees in the lush garden next door.

"I like green ones better, anyway," she answered.

Steve could not entirely hold back a snort, and she glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Sorry," he said hastily. _Sam, get me out of this one._

Sam appeared on Nat's other side, and Bucky called suddenly, "Hey, Nat."

She turned, and Steve and Sam each leaned in and kissed her cheek, one on each side, and Bucky snapped the picture.

The first thing Steve heard was Bucky's guffaw. The second was Nat shouting in Russian. _"Ty takoy pridurok!"_

She lunged across the room at Bucky, who dropped the phone, jumping to his feet.

"Nat!" Sam yelled, too late.

Even as Steve threw himself after her, Bucky caught her forearm, dragging her out of the air, and twisting around to kneel over her, pinning her down with his one arm.

Steve stopped himself just short of grabbing his friend. "Bucky!"

But Bucky was already standing, pulling Nat back to her feet, letting go like he was going to burn her. He turned away, running into Steve, who caught a glimpse of his eyes, wide with shock, the color gone from his face. He put his head down and bolted from the room.

Nat cursed softly. Made a move toward the doorway.

"No," Sam said. "Give him a minute. Then Steve go."

Steve heard the bathroom door not quite slam, and he flinched like he'd been slapped.

Bucky slumped beside the toilet, certain he was going to lose his supper. He was shaking, and he spread his hand against the floor, bracing himself. Trying to ground himself with the cold tiles.

He gagged once, tasted bile, spat, swallowed hard several times.

Someone tapped at the door. "Buck?"

"Steve–" His voice broke, and he closed his eyes, fighting for control.

He didn't hear the door open, but he felt Steve's warm presence close by. "Just breathe, Buck. Just breathe."

He knew if Steve touched him, he'd break down, so he tried to do as he was told.

"Just breathe. Just breathe."

He sank back against the wall, pulled his knees up, and rested his forehead on them. Steve sat to his right, just close enough that their arms brushed together.

Long silence, as both men breathed.

Steve closed his eyes, heart aching. What if Sharon was right and he was needed at that 'situation'? Dang it, why couldn't he just be a guy whose friend needed him? Because others needed his help too, whether he carried that shield or not.

"Nat."

He opened his eyes with a start. "She's fine," he answered. "She said to tell you she's sorry. And that she forgives you."

"Why?"

Steve sent up a little prayer that he could find the words. "Because. She cares. I think she understands. Better than others like me. They made Nat into a spy and a killer. Until Clint convinced her she could be more. We can never be what we once were. But we can become better than we are now."

"Not me," Bucky said dully. "I can wish all I want, but all it'll take is someone saying those words again, _anyone_ , and–"

Steve waited.

"–people die."

"Do you trust T'Challa?"

The question startled Bucky, forced him to refocus. "Yeah." He'd proven himself over and over again.

"Do you trust Shuri?"

"Yes." How could he not trust a girl that smart and sure of herself?

"Then forget the 'what ifs' and remember what _is_."

A disbelieving snort escaped Buck. The nerve of Steve, throwing his own words back in his face.

"Do you trust _me_?"

He sighed. "Of course."

"Buck."

He heard that 'I-am-Captain-America-and-I will-do this-or-die-trying' ring in Steve's voice and finally looked over at his friend.

The combination of grief, and unwavering, stubborn hope, created an intensity that radiated off him. "I swear: you're going to be okay. I promise you, and I'll keep promising until you believe me. You are going to be okay. You are–"

"Stop," Bucky groaned, not sure if he was going to laugh or cry. "Dang it, Steve. Why do you care so much? Why do you waste your time on an old, washed up murderer like me?"

"Because, you're my friend. My brother. And HYDRA took my friend and put the Winter Soldier in him, tried to kill Bucky Barnes. But they couldn't. Bucky hung on, and now Bucky is going to win." Steve's voice was getting more choked up with each word, and he had to stop to clear his throat.

He reached out, and now he gripped Buck's shoulders, turning him to look straight into his face. "Bucky never wanted to hurt anybody. If someone needed him, he'd fight for them, but he only fought because he wanted peace. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He still doesn't. Nat scared you, so you defended yourself. But you weren't trying to hurt her. She knows that."

"What are you, a psychologist now?" Bucky blurted, trying to hold together the last remnants of his composure. But he didn't wait for a reply, he just wrapped his arm around Steve's middle and buried his head against his friend's chest.

Steve's arms closed around him, and they sat on the bathroom floor there, no tears now, just holding on.

After a while Bucky mumbled into Steve's shirt, "I'm with you to the end of the line, pal."

"I know. Jerk."

"Punk."

"Merry Christmas, Buck."

"Merry Christmas, Stevie."

 **Author's note**

If you're wondering, Bucky's gift to Nat was a note apologizing for almost/trying to kill her all those times, and according to Google Translate Nat yelled, "You are such a jerk!"  
The only thing left is Steve's letter to Buck.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky stood on the flat roof of their building in the pre pre-dawn chill, listening to the others finish loading their bags into the Quinjet.

Two hours ago he had been fast asleep at the foot of Steve's bed, the two of them having sat up late talking. Again. Like they were trying to make up for 70 years of silence.

The call came from Wanda. They were needed. Now.

The shadows that were Steve, Nat, and Sam came jogging back toward him.

Nat reached him first, startling him when she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Good to know Steve's got a brother, for real. Not a ghost." Before he could respond, she melted back into the darkness.

Sam gave him a quick hug, a slap on the back. "Take care."

"Yeah," was all Buck could muster.

Steve stepped forward, and they hugged hard, almost fiercely. When they stepped back to catch their breath, he could see Steve's grin, gleaming white.

"That one arm's as strong as two."

"Well, with a king and a genius, and my old best friend on my side, how can I lose?"

"Darn right." Steve took another step back, let his hand slide off his friend's shoulder. "I'll call as soon as I can. And I'll be back. I promise."

"See ya," was Bucky's soft reply.

Steve turned and ran to the plane, not looking back until he turned to close the bay door. He could just make out the silhouette of a one-armed man, with long hair, watching them go. He smiled and hoped Buck would find that letter sooner, rather than later.

The jet lifted off and Bucky stayed there until he was certain he could see nothing. Then he made his way back down into the house. He was supposed to start treatment in a little over eight hours.

He decided he should try getting some sleep, but gave up after tossing and turning for an hour. He was lying in bed, staring into the dark, when he suddenly remembered his journals.

Yeah, now might be a good time to write. He could feel that familiar pressure building inside him.

He got up, and dug in the closet for his old duffle bag. Settled back on the bed, unzipped it, and saw a white envelope lying on top.

One word, in handwriting he instantly recognized: _Buck._

 _Bucky,_

 _Now I'm the one who doesn't know what to say. Other than thank you, again and again and again._

 _I remember standing at the train station, seeing you off to boot camp. Aunt Winnie trying not to cry, she broke down as soon as the train pulled out. Your dad looking so proud. Rebecca jiggling little JB, and Frank, hoping you could end the war before the draft called him. The twins, giddy between excitement and tears._

 _You hugged your sisters and your scrawny little brother: me. You told me to keep studying, not work too hard, and not date too many dames at once. I wasn't too worried about that._

 _We lost more than we can count in that war. Odd how so much is coming back._

 _Not 'what if'. What is._

 _Don't worry about me. Apparently I'm indestructible. I'll be home before you know it._

 _Did I just say home?_

 _Well, they do say 'home is where the heart is'. And that would be with my friends. And especially with my brother. I don't know quite how to put this, but having you here, even for a week, gosh, how do I say this without sounding like a sentimental dame? I feel like_ _ **I**_ _was lost, and now_ _ **I'm**_ _found._

 _There's one more thing I want to say. About Tony and me. That wasn't your fault. That was my choice, with the Accords. As for the fight, you did the same for me once. Can we just say we're even?_

 _I'm proud of you, Buck. I know trust isn't easy. Just hang in there._

 _Thanks again, pal. Back with you to the end of the line._

 _Love,_

 _Stevie_

 **Author's note**

Way Back When comes next. Hope you like that one too!


End file.
